On either side of the pinewood table;
One with a crooked leg and a secret drawer;
On chairs with lazy backrests,
And cushioned, hanging armrests-
Truth and me, aged red-wine, bottled anew;
A gift of love, friendship and kinship alike.
‘with this bottle of wine,I bring,
A clarity, guilt, no more nor remorse,
Harmony and peace are my seeds,
acknowledge me, they will grow’
Truth, he said, a harsh but assuring sound.
Mystical rainbow-rays of the half-born sun,
On my early morning face, windows half open,
A heavy head, hang-over of the truth,
I found myself, demented over-
Had the sun knocked to enter the room?
And who had opened the wine bottle?
Me or the truth?
Wine bottle recapped, glasses flushed,
Questions shrugged off, a hot dark coffee,
was it just a dream? Two wine glasses, how?
A solitary egg, a kettle-full of water to swim,
Her?, yes her, but, she hated red wine.
Half-boiled eggs, he had always liked,
Rock with a molted core.